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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633077">i’ve been trying</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/junesangie/pseuds/junesangie'>junesangie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>too afraid to fall asleep [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avoiding each other, Being Walked In On, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Game Night, Imagery, Lee Taeyong Needs a Hug, M/M, Mark Lee is a Good Friend, Morning walks, Relationship Problems, Secrets, alexa play euphoria by bts, baekhyun is weird but we love him, chittaphon leechaiyapornkul | ten needs a hug, not really but sort of, taemin back at it again with the loving antics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:20:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/junesangie/pseuds/junesangie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>the size of his heart is debilitating. it weighs on him, made of asphalt and iron and diamonds, though being unbreakable is a trait it’s never possessed.</p><p>maybe ten’s fleeting idiosyncrasies are, in some way, connected with countless tangling wires he’s forgotten how to connect. he always did believe in fate, but now, it seems a bitter last resort.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Taeyong/Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>too afraid to fall asleep [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i’ve been trying</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>LIGHTE’S BACK &amp; IT’S  BEEN MONTHS BUT HERE’S THE THIRD PART. STAY TUNED FOR THE FOURTH INSTALLATION SOMETIME i NEXT YEAR.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Taeyong’s masquerade has yet to retract its festivities into the wine-blurred night. </p><p> </p><p>By this, he means those intricate masks that he and Ten—<em> Chittaphon </em>—have been parading about in, looking absolutely ridiculous and miserable at once, have added no respect to those misspelled words so many nights ago. He’d like to act his part, obtain a confident persona, surge through the special effects that make his scenes of the video so poignantly memorable—but he can’t.</p><p> </p><p>And by <em> this </em>, he means they’ve been brushing coattails at the party for months now, and neither has the stomach to shatter that final barrier. Maybe that’s where he went wrong, avoidance being his only suggestion to the crowd. Every card is a baton to the chest, beating in tandem with his heart, comfortably settled on the player’s table as he crumples to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>It’s now that he keeps a relatively decent poker face, sitting two people from Ten’s right, shoulder grazing Mark’s before he pulls back to hide the palmful of uno cards in his possession. “Stop peeking,” the youngest gripes, but Taeyong’s gaze wanders someplace else, far above yet too near the view of vibrant numbers. Down to three again after a much too convenient ‘draw two’ from Baekhyun, his gaze remained icy until now, determined to slice open their leader’s arsenal, likely swollen to its brim with the perfect color. He plays the fool now, but it’s irrelevant; his target wavers, vanishes with stars winking precariously above their heads. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” An incredulous cry emits from Taemin, mouth agape until tulip petals form a childish frown. He register’s Jongin’s giggling from beside Mark, and soon Yukhei catches on, disguising his own marshmallow-sticky snicker with the fan of cards. “That’s not fair,” he pouts, spidery fingers reaching out to steal four new hidden weapons, some useless and some incredibly helpful in vengeance. “I’ll get you back for that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, maybe after Yukhei-ah wins,” comes a voice of honey-soaked cotton, plugging his ears, smothering his senses until it all soaks in like whipped cream to hot chocolate. Ten grins, one so telling and so ridiculously beautiful that Taeyong actually feels a thick pulse throbbing upward in his throat. He’s mysterious, shrouded in a fog glittering with fireflies. While the jaws of nighttime air snip at his nose and cheeks, dismissing the flush over both cheekbones, Ten wears the flowering rawness like an artful gown, slipping down his final card to cause another bout of rioting from all sides. It’s almost white noise, like crickets or cars streaking down the asphalt. </p><p> </p><p>He’s ethereal, and Taeyong suddenly can’t remember a moment in which his doubt <em> didn’t </em> cloud all rational judgement.</p><p> </p><p>“You did <em> not </em>—” Mark begins, cut off by an elbow to the ribs as everyone’s blankets get tangled, plastic cups of popcorn at their feet nearly spilling over as the indignant shouting turns to disbelief. </p><p> </p><p>“How the hell did we not see that?” Jongin asks, tossing down his cards, revealing practically any color he’d require to lose. “Oh my god…” And at this, their senior member is high-fiving the man he wishes would speak to him, the group of them mostly over losing their minds about the win.</p><p> </p><p>Jealousy is prevalent in the way he hesitates and bares his teeth for a smile that hardly looks real. He can’t exactly be blamed, though. It’s been months since they did anything more than fuck, pretend the tendencies of strangers weren’t now their own. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been too long since he tried to mean something more to him, especially in the aftermath of his ill-placed words. It stings more than easy negotiation should.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay.” Baekhyun’s taken to standing now, fuzzy violet blanket still wrapped tightly about his shoulders as Mark stuffs the doubled-up deck back into it’s plastic bag. “So, we went crazy over Uno, right?” Everyone nods, Ten still wearing that grin specially tailored to match every inch of his body. He nearly doesn’t catch the fresh-voiced announcement, shoving Baekhyun’s next idea to the bench, or any interested murmuring that follows.</p><p> </p><p>“We should watch a horror movie.”</p><p> </p><p>At this, a barrage of emotions roils across the patio, the grays of a storm and pale, fluffy clouds accumulating in the center. On one hand, Taemin looks downright thrilled, tugging at Baekhyun’s arm and asking giddily if he’s actually offering this. Concerning the others, most anyone but Ten is slightly hesitant about watching one so late. The satisfaction is back, control once more his, spotlights shimmering down from the heavens to illuminate—</p><p> </p><p>He’s being ridiculous. “Sounds good to me,” Taeyong eventually pitches in, and it’s yet another cacophony of shouting and scrambling to pick up unfinished snacks, throw blankets slipping from flailing forms as everyone shoves through the door. Somehow, Yukhei’s managed to get there first, any seat on the couch or carpet available save the very center one he’s occupying. The television flicks to life, and he hands Taemin the remote. It’s considerate, but anything this hyung picks will probably scare both hell and any remaining courage out of him.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, once Mark is done struggling out of his jacket, they settle on a new release that’ll probably have all of them up until morning. He makes a mental note—one barely adorned with what might have been some red-faced emojis had it been on his phone—to give a certain someone his most painful forehead flick.</p><p> </p><p>When he turns back to the screen, there’s scarlet pooling about a motionless body, and the winding intestines almost make him sick before the cold sweat clears, scene swapping for a man with pleasant crescents for eyes. He looks friendly, approachable, yet his charisma shields in melded silver the falsity of such beauty. Decidedly the opposite of a man he’d fall for, though the murderer fits each member in the palm of one ring-clad hand, no one left unscathed by a brief spell of swooning attraction.</p><p> </p><p>And maybe Taeyong reiterates his focus on this man throughout the film, a blessing despite how chiseling the statue by memory would only produce someone else’s face. Laughter becomes sandpaper in the crevices of his elbows and knees, watching people from afar as they drape affection over Ten. It’s miles of silk and flowered lace he can’t compete with, a notable discouragement he never would have puzzled out till now.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not jealousy, he tries to justify, crashing into the deep end of a restless sleep. But his dreams whirl until he’s nauseous anyway, magnolias and glittering mist, gutted pleas and uncut diamonds. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t understand how people live like this. Curling into himself, it’s not so much an answer he finds rather than another incessant concern:</p><p> </p><p>Maybe they don’t live. Maybe they just survive.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll smother you with my bunny if you don’t get off,” becomes the muffled, dry-lipped threat of the year. Autumn breezes in through the house, void of personal color while the outside world bursts with birdsong. This must be the coldest morning yet, judging by the way Baekhyun shivers in his pajamas, clambering off the pile of coziness they managed to bury Taeyong under last night. Clinging tightly to his own blanket, clamping down fingers he’s made into iron cuffs, a frown fashions into his typical kitten-like pout instead of conveying annoyance at being crushed until waking. </p><p> </p><p>It’s the promise of coffee that slightly buoyes him to the kitchen, unrelenting as he hides beneath his patterned coats as a chameleon of the human race. Taemin sneaks a hand beneath his hood, ruffles matted honey hair poking into his line of sight, and gives him a gentle peck atop the fabric to remind him that even the quicksands of love prove him absolutely unbeatable. A definite shine returns to his gaze, polished tiger’s eye with a hopeful motive.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, hyung,” he mumbles, and everything decides to flip onto its head when a shivering hand passes him a mug of coffee. </p><p> </p><p>Ten stares at him for a second, as if he can’t believe his eyes, and quickly uncurls every finger from the ceramic rim. “Sorry,” is all he says, and then it’s off the earth’s face again, or at least South Korea. Staring down at the cup now seconds from shattering in his tight grasp, he wants more than anything to hurl the stupid thing into a cupboard. <em> You’re such an idiot. </em>When he looks down, forcing his arms to obey simple direction, it’s only habitual instinct that has him sipping at the drink. </p><p> </p><p>Without even realizing, it almost brings a smile to the surface. Warming his throat, then his palms, it tastes exactly the way coffee does when he makes his own. And for some reason, it makes the knife in his stomach twist further. Deeper. Months later, and Ten still has it drilled into his memory.</p><p> </p><p>He chokes on air, covering the wild coughing fit with his elbow. Any excuse to keep the drink unfinished. That goes for his forearms enfolding his neck, a shred of nocturnal flora shutting its petals at the morning sun. Because it hurts. Every extremity weakens, so much that when Mark tries to pull him from the veil of regret, he nearly collapses to his knees. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” he says, but almost everyone save Yukhei has their attention on tunnel vision toward him. Ten is nowhere to be found; he suddenly wishes he were drowning in the nearly-scalding drink he refused to take. Mark’s got his arm in one hand, that little crease between his brow telling everything he’s thinking. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t look so good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mark’s right. You’re paler than usual,” Jongin says, and lets his own blanket hang by the chair as he moves to steady Taeyong. As if on cue to save him from explaining, his stomach growls, clearly lacking what everyone else already had. “Breakfast.” It’s pretty much an order, so by the time Mark unclasps his hands from the other rapper, both Baekhyun and Taemin are debating in not-so-quiet whispers about which cereal their younger friend would prefer.</p><p> </p><p>He’d tell them, but it doesn’t seem right to correct the people offering help sweeter than his favorite morning meal. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, a bowl of chocolate-strawberry Chex sits in front of him. Formed by conspicuous bites of the little squares, he can make out a mocking face among the milk, smiling up at him as if its rosy grin can see right through his façade of happiness. He probably looks near the same as a delicate smile takes the place of audible gratitude, and it seems to quell any worries of satisfying him. They leave eventually, just to dress and freshen up, because their leader mentions a walk through some nearby neighborhoods Taeyong can’t believe he’s agreed to.</p><p> </p><p>Alone in the dining room, still glaring with vitriol at his breakfast, he spoons the remains of that stupid smirk into his mouth. Tracing the vivid pink milk are faint swirls of chocolate, and he almost envisions another face before draining it dry as his heart.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Laughter, almost reminiscent of last night, breezes in through his slightly open door. It’s boisterous—he can hear Mark’s screaming from the bathroom—but somehow musical, like the sounds of everyone waking at his first dorm. Noisy, messy, and decidedly irresponsible for those thirty minutes where varying levels of consciousness are present from one hallway into a small kitchen. He continues brushing his teeth, focused on the fourth quarter of his mouth while reaching for a rubber-handled hairbrush. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, thank god…”</p><p> </p><p>Head snapping up, a frightened flightless bird who’s been burying his head in fiery sand for months at this rate, Taeyong turns just shy of ninety degrees to look Mark directly in the eyes. A lone streak of foamy white dripping down his chin creates a metaphor to rain drizzling through his lungs, refreshing and terrifying in a promise to flood all lasting dregs of failing romance, like tap water washing tea leaves down the drain. “Hey…” he mumbles through a mouthful of toothpaste, taking it upon himself to spit this hindrance into the sink, rubbing his lips clean before trying a take two. “What’s up?” It only now registers that his friend is wearing one sock, a pajama top, and bleached jeans with the button undone. </p><p> </p><p>“Ten-hyung chased me out. <em> That’s </em> what’s up,” is the answer, accented by a raise of both eyebrows. </p><p> </p><p>And though he doesn’t want to seem desperate for explanation, he can’t quell the molten sensation roiling about his insides, magma awaiting the perfect moment to spew as ash and liquid stone without daring to provide better reason than unfettered emotion. “Oh.” It doesn’t take long for him to add more, hesitation easier to slice through than overripe bananas for an impromptu baking party. “Did he tell you why?”</p><p> </p><p>“Said something about his outfit being a surprise? Hell if I know, man.” Mark seems to deflate a bit, buzzing atoms now a closer relative to static electricity than a broken television, tugging on his other sock with a sigh. “He’s been all weird these past few months. Like, he <em> talks </em> to me and stuff, but he’s been so…what’s the word for it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Distant?” Taeyong completes, pretending to focus intently on locks he’s brushed out perfectly at least ten seconds ago. Each one thorns into his temple, his neck, grazing like razor blades and he’s too shocked they refuse to draw beads of scarlet until Mark speaks up again.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s the one.” For some reason, the clothes slung over one shoulder weren’t an important variable, but now the younger man is fully dressed and standing at his side. “Can I borrow your hairbrush, hyung?” he asks, voice tempered as chocolate for candy-making at the inquiry. It’s not so huge a deal; they’ve shared shampoo and lotions, even those fancy loofahs with slivers of soap woven in at the dorm. Handing him the brush is a given, at least to Taeyong. “Thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>This time, he doesn’t choke on freezing tap water, swilling it around every tooth before letting it run carefully from his mouth into the shiny porcelain. No matter how many days he spends here, that bowl seems intent on blinding him with how bright it is. With what’s probably unnecessary flourish, he snatches a silver chain necklace from across the bathroom counter, fastening the clasp without a single slip of his fingers. Mark’s probably stealing his hoop earrings for the day, judging by the way he rubs at them with a wet cotton ball, but he’s already put studs in one ear, fine chains hanging from the other, so it’s fine by him.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think—” It’s unprompted, but even so, he doesn’t finish the question. “Never mind.”</p><p> </p><p>“Think what?” This time, it’s Taeyong prodding and urging a reply from someone else. Alien as it feels, he doesn’t really mind this time. “If it’s about anyone else getting all fancy, don’t worry about it. We haven’t left this place in four days, I think <em> everyone </em> will be—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not <em> about </em> that.”</p><p> </p><p>He quits rambling quickly as he began, only realizing the copious amount of useless words inflating his excuses. <em> Please don’t mention Ten, </em> he pleads, wishing for the hundredth time telepathy could be more than a fictional superpower, just so he’d have some basis of nonverbal communication to tell Mark without really saying how he feels. </p><p> </p><p>“What <em> is </em> it about…?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean—okay, you’re not gonna want to hear this,” he begins, which only inflates the balloon threatening to pop in his guts. The younger doesn’t even meet Taeyong’s piercing gaze, folding both legs into a pretzel on the toilet cover to stare at his feet. “I just…I feel like you and Ten-hyung haven’t been <em> close </em> lately. Even Kai-hyung is worried there’s something going on with you two and, like—I didn’t wanna say anything, but I <em> know </em> something’s up.” </p><p> </p><p>Some imaginary force pulls the weapon from a plugged wound, and for a moment, there’s blissful shock to numb his pain. </p><p> </p><p>Then the knife buries itself into his abdomen, right beside the first incision, and he feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. Color pours from any opening imaginable, bleeding ultraviolet and canary and carnation, electric lime and turquoise, his frame folding in on itself as he becomes the flower once again, delicate and unable to be touched by sunlight that reveals every secret and hidden motive with blinding strands of white gold.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” is all he can manage, swallowing what feels like his breakfast pulsing back up his throat. He can’t handle this. It’s easier to run; the throbbing is less than habit and more like a ritualized, knee-jerk reaction. Mark, for all his good intentions, tries to follow him.</p><p> </p><p>He only gets as far as the doorway before realizing it’s not enough. </p><p> </p><p>And by then, Taeyong is gritting his teeth, head smacking against the wall, struggling with the rainfall because he can’t ruin strokes of eyeliner he chose specifically for Ten. They’re dazzlingly emerald, smooth and fairy-like to accent hues a bit too large for typical contemplation. Ten—<em> Chittaphon, his name is Chittaphon </em>—was obsessed with them, like the rest of his body, a similar comparison to how he imagined his mind.</p><p> </p><p>If he perched someplace beside, peering into the cage, would he still think so? Would he still be beautiful then?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. Not for him. You’re never enough for him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And with that, clear autumn atmosphere the acid between his lashes, he lets the strings pull him upright. Allows himself to be a marionette, guided by some inexperienced force for the living room downstairs. It’s not ideal, but he’s waited long enough to heal. Plans may not float perfectly into place, but he’s had so many in limbo for weeks now, and he’ll be absolutely damned if it stays this way forever.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“It’s been forty-five minutes already… How is he not done?” Yukhei muses, reapplying his lip balm for the third time. For some reason, Taeyong notices the subtle glance from Baekhyun toward their tallest member. Maybe, if situations reset, it won’t be difficult to channel energy in their direction instead.</p><p> </p><p>“I saw him pulling out eyeshadow and shit, dude.” This is followed by a methodical roll of shimmering eyes, careful hand tucking a stray wave of newly-blond hair behind one ear. “He’ll be here in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>For all intents and purposes, he really hopes that’s true. Anytime he dolled up for photo shoots or music videos, those selfies he sent with even more adorable messages were the highlight of their days away from one another. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not as if he anticipates much, but a weakened heart leaps into his mouth as <em> he </em> strides into the room, fashionably late and still thriving off the attention. Taemin gives him a once-over, eyes larger than hibiscuses in full bloom, before curling hands at the base of Taeyong’s spine and pushing him forward with the force of a whole moon tide.</p><p> </p><p>Their eyes lock for the second instance today—this morning, really—keys slotting into place, burnished gold shedding rust as they stare for what must be longer than necessary.</p><p> </p><p>Jongin threads his arm about Taeyong’s shoulders, and Baekhyun guides Ten to their gathering by the elbow. Contact broken, they don’t materialize confidence the way it should have been. Still, he knows the storm roiling beneath his surface; both have quite near always more intricate than they seem.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Mark takes the lead when everyone files out the door, and not one person minds the route. It’s not as if the clear air, practically freezer-burning their ears, is so much of a nuisance that turning back early would be acceptable. Besides, during the pandemic, people have taken it upon themselves to begin decorating early; the holidays come in forms of plastic icicles and string lights, deflated cartoon characters and woven-stick reindeer scattered across manicured lawns.</p><p> </p><p>For such a long time, Taeyong has forgotten how appreciative he feels to all these people. They go out of their way, shoehorning chunks of laden time into a work day, just to spruce up a home both inside and out. And the efforts make so many others happy, even if passersby are submerged in their world of music or the newest information. It’s a mannerism he never gave much thought to previously, but now adores for its selfless reason.</p><p> </p><p>At this point, they’ve passed into what feels to be the heart of this neighborhood, and both the sidewalks and streets are empty save the rare homeowner out watering their lawn. As expected, Yukhei is the first to speak up, though all of them have been conversing to one another about several unrelated topics. “Guys, look!” He’s pointing with meritable excitement at the roof of a huge two-story house. “They have—they’re horses, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Unicorns,” Taemin corrects gently, smile visible even with the mask. And at this rate, they’ve all stopped, stunned by a view of eight mystical creatures prancing along the shingles of this house. </p><p> </p><p>Taeyong hangs back, like he’s been doing for a couple months now outside lives or recordings of ridiculous games they’re made to play. Yet for some reason, the shiver racing up his nape isn’t because of a blustering, icy wind. Someone’s missing from the cluster, and he’s head-counting, one through five and weaving back through, edging into a bridge of panic before the single absent person takes advantage of enamored interest.</p><p> </p><p>“Follow me,” comes a whisper through what feels like a bandit’s cover, bloodless blades scaling his flesh, embedded for decades until wispy hands begin tugging him away to one of many side streets. No one follows; every camera is distanced for at least a mile. The relayed message flowing as boiling water over peppermint leaves, he wants to think sickening conclusions will finally end his balancing act. He wants this to end, because it’s so horribly unlikely to believe they will work in double stitching a threadbare blanket fashioned of so many hopes for the future.</p><p> </p><p>Three houses down, most every one resting along this road for sale or lease, he’s pulled by the hand to trample wilting grass and ends standing with glossy tears beading from either cold or anticipation. He expects the worst, for what good does treading by instead of toward him do? What greatness will he receive for disintegrating when Ten needed him most?</p><p> </p><p>Instead of a lasting handprint across his face, the retracting claws have no venomous bite. His palm cups Taeyong’s jaw, trailing up in such a stilled, awkward position, fingertips unhooking elastic from one ear to pull off the mask he wore as a shield from the gritty outer world. Confused and so intrigued, he allows these ministrations, biting forcefully on his lower lip. It’s not that he believes Ten should deliver such kindness to him, but it’s comforting all the same.</p><p> </p><p>Finding his own courage is hard. But when the second blockade unravels, falls short of a useless float to earth, it’s every man for himself in the silence of morning light. His hands grip Chittaphon’s waist, remembering exactly how they bruised so easily three months ago, and glossy petals crush his own as arms toss themselves around his neck. </p><p> </p><p>He’s devouring Taeyong, but that’s okay. He wants it, craves it like oxygen or clear water, knowing that his ability to consume can rival this whenever he likes. It’s good this way—better, sweeter to taste. And he won’t let this slide through again, not when glittery eyeshadow is smeared over those lids, dark cherries bursting on his taste buds and Chittaphon’s lips. Not when his opportunity is popping seams and unaware that a chance to mend everything is here, now, forever if he wants it to be.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” Chittaphon slurs between their mouths, pleading, praying as both hands keep their heads in line, intent both emotional and of harsh reality. “I’m sorry for doing this, and I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”</p><p> </p><p>Taeyong, this time, doesn’t hesitate. Healing wings take to the wind, feathers plumed and ruffled enough for comparison as he gives into the glorious sensation of freedom.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” he whispers, chest burning and a single tear stained by inky eyeliner trailing down his cheek. They’re no longer kissing, foreheads tilted to lean for support, but that’s more than alright. It’s been so long and it’s so much to take in that even breathing as one is more than enough. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>One shuddering inhale brings the final act to a close, and even the curtains rustle for their own applause.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” In tandem, it’s a confession. But now, after waiting and huddling beneath empty sheets, it means more than either can describe, even with meticulous, trifling details. </p><p> </p><p>They laugh, watery and choking on saline finally shed by the glow of sunbeams. Taeyong finds himself barely able to see, but Chittaphon’s crown is a halo of the shine in dark irises, and it’s happiness and mourning and retribution that he cries for now as he offers yet another tender kiss. “<em> Thank you, </em>” becomes the only word he can manage, the entire world in both his hands as they disregard whatever happens next.</p><p> </p><p>It seems too perfect, but it’s not as if all has been resolved to the point of blistered scars melting back into swan-winged shoulders. Still—their version of healing begins now, with an unexpected audience arriving just around the corner, stunned in one moment and applauding the next. </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up,” Chittaphon yells to them, though no tiger’s fangs expand that far, his most incredible smile illuminating every corner of Taeyong’s heart. </p><p> </p><p>They don’t pull away, not necessarily, but masks are fussed over and tears dried before they all decide on heading back for a relaxing afternoon. The others chatter now more than ever, two lovebirds heading a route back, listening with joyous amusement to the incredulous voices surrounding them. A left and right hand’s branches entwine, growing together in spite of prior consternation. The sun smiles above, simply admiring seven young men with wills and promises greater than the universe they reside in.</p><p> </p><p>A chaperone awaiting the arrival of regal guests, Taemin bows while holding open the door for his friends. Brighter now, euphoric by default and still giddy from his unbroken spark, Taeyong drags Chittaphon to the living room’s very center, treasuring the grin breaking day across his lover’s face when the mask tears off a second time.</p><p> </p><p>For what feels like the first time in his life, he leans in, so nearly tasting glossy lips against his own. Chittaphon smiles, a gentleman and the solar system compressed through one single being. He closes the distance between them, and in this moment, in this space—they’ve never been happier to be alive.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hope this satisfied some of you in this taeten drought!! i miss their content, someone just give me bds pt. ii already TT</p></blockquote></div></div>
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